The Lord of the Rings
Chapter 5: The Old Forest
The fog of the Brandywine had stayed behind them, but as the sun rose over Buckland, it brought no comfort. Frodo, Sam, and Pippin stood at the edge of the High Hay—a massive, miles-long hedge that guarded the inhabited lands from the ancient, brooding wilderness known as the Old Forest.
To the Hobbits of the Shire, the Old Forest was a place of nursery nightmares. It was said that the trees there didn't like strangers, that they watched you, and that they moved when your back was turned to block your path.
"Are we really going in there?" Pippin asked, staring at the wall of tangled grey branches and dark leaves. "Couldn't we just take the Road? Even with the Riders, at least the Road stays still."
"The Road is a trap, Pippin," Frodo said, his voice grim. "The Riders know every inch of it. The Forest is the only way to lose them."
With a deep breath, they pushed through the small iron gate in the hedge. As the gate clicked shut behind them, the atmosphere changed instantly. The cheerful morning air of Buckland was replaced by a heavy, stifling silence. The light was dim, filtered through a canopy so thick that it felt like they were walking at the bottom of a deep, green sea.
The Living Woods
As they began to walk, the path—if it could be called that—seemed to shift. They had planned to head North-East, but every time they found an opening, the trees seemed to lean in, forcing them toward the South.
"I don't like the way that oak is looking at me," Sam whispered, clutching his backpack.
He wasn't imagining it. The trees were ancient, their trunks twisted into shapes that looked like agonized faces. Their roots snaked across the ground like giant, sleeping serpents. There was no sound of birds here, no rustle of small animals. Only the long, slow creak of wood against wood, like the Forest was whispering to itself.
"It's the heat," Frodo said, wiping sweat from his brow. The air was unnaturally warm and humid. "The Forest is trying to make us tired. Keep moving."
But the Forest had a plan. Slowly, surely, it funneled them down toward the valley of the Withywindle. This was the dark heart of the woods, a place where the shadows were deepest and the trees were most malicious.
The Trap of Old Man Willow
By mid-afternoon, a heavy, irresistible lethargy seized them. Their eyelids felt like lead. The sound of the wind in the leaves became a hypnotic lullaby.
"I just... need a moment," Pippin mumbled, staggering toward a massive willow tree that leaned over the dark, slow-moving water of the river.
The willow was enormous, its grey-green branches trailing in the water like long hair. At its base, the roots formed comfortable, chair-like hollows. Before Frodo could stop them, Pippin and Merry (who had joined them in Buckland) collapsed into the roots and fell into a deep, unnatural sleep.
Frodo felt the pull too. He sat down by the water, his head nodding. But as he drifted off, a sudden crack jolted him awake.
He watched in horror as the willow tree moved. The roots, which had seemed like solid wood, were coiling around Merry and Pippin like the tentacles of an octopus. A great crack in the trunk opened up like a mouth, and Merry was being drawn inside.
"Help!" Frodo cried, his voice cracking. "Sam! Wake up!"
Sam, who had been fighting the sleep, jumped up. They grabbed the roots, trying to pull their friends free, but the wood was as hard as iron and as flexible as leather. The tree let out a low, vibrating hum of satisfaction. It was eating them.
The Arrival of the Master
Just as Frodo was about to give up hope, a sound echoed through the dark woods—a sound so ridiculous and joyful that it seemed impossible in this graveyard of trees.
"Ho! Tom Bombadil, Tom Bombadillo!
Bright blue his jacket is, and his boots are yellow!"
A man came hopping and dancing over the roots. He was shorter than a Man but larger than a Hobbit. He had a long brown beard, eyes as blue as the sea, and a face as red and wrinkled as a ripe apple. He wore a tall, battered hat with a blue feather and bright yellow boots.
He didn't look like a warrior or a wizard, but as he approached the Great Willow, the very air seemed to brighten.
"Now then! Now then!" the man sang, his voice booming. "Old Man Willow, you be quiet now! Fold your roots away! Tom is in a hurry, and he doesn't like your play!"
To Frodo's amazement, the ancient, murderous tree actually shivered. With a slow, grudging groan, the roots unwound. Merry and Pippin were spat out onto the grass, gasping for air. The crack in the trunk slammed shut.
The House of Tom
Tom Bombadil laughed, a sound like a mountain stream. "Come, little ones! The sun is setting, and the Old Forest is no place for Hobbits to be wandering. My lady Goldberry is waiting with the candles lit!"
He led them out of the dark valley to a hill where a small stone house stood, glowing with warm light. Inside, the air smelled of lilies and honey. There they met Goldberry, the Daughter of the River, a woman so beautiful and ethereal that Frodo felt he was in a dream.
That night, for the first time since leaving Bag End, Frodo felt truly safe. Over a supper of cream, honeycomb, and white bread, Tom talked. He talked of the history of the world, of the time before the Elves, when the trees were the masters of the earth.
But then, the conversation turned serious. Tom asked to see the Ring.
Frodo, usually so protective, handed it over without hesitation. Tom put the Ring on his pinky finger and laughed.
He did not disappear.
He spun the Ring in the air, made it vanish in a puff of smoke, and then handed it back to a stunned Frodo.
"Your golden toy has no power over Tom," the old man said, his eyes twinkling. "Tom was here before the first raindrop and the first acorn. He remembers the first dark lord, and he will be here when the last one falls. But you, little Frodo... your path is long and the shadows are hungry."
As Frodo went to bed that night, he realized that there were powers in the world that even Sauron could not touch. But he also knew that Tom Bombadil would not help them on their quest. Tom was his own master, and the Ring was not his burden to carry.
The journey to Rivendell was only beginning, and the Barrow-downs—and the ghosts that lived within them—were waiting for the morning.